


Innocuous

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Brief Handjob, Established Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23324524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Victor is both the precocious and curious sort.
Relationships: Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Kudos: 17





	Innocuous

**Author's Note:**

> Ah...it seems I've become a serial rarepair writer. This was supposed to only be ~1000 words but that never seems to work out for me tbh.
> 
> A lot of what I write and post here is rather experimental for me tbh. Usually I sound like I've been possessed by the spirit of a Victorian-era writer, and one can see that shine through in some places in this fic.

“Piers?”

Victor’s voice is nervous, timid even, and Piers feels him shift, fidgeting. They’re not particularly far apart. It’s the opposite really, what with Victor pressed against his side and his arm around the boy’s shoulders.

He sets his book on the nightstand before lifting his arm from Victor’s shoulders.

“Gettin’ hot?”

With tonight’s humid forecast—more fit for drunken merriment or a bout of mischief than for a sleepy evening in bed—and between the down-filled comforter and the thick wool blanket, it’s a warm sort of night. It’s not something that Piers minds all too much himself really—he is rather prone to night chills—but Victor is a different matter. He’s not particularly accustomed to the number of layers that Piers prefers.

Idly, Piers makes a note to buy another blanket, cotton or silk perhaps. They don’t have many thin blankets in their house, nothing that would suit someone of Victor’s constitution and preferences. Neither he nor Marnie are particularly adept at withstanding the cold, and Piers had never thought to buy thinner blankets for the guests.

It’s not like Raihan or Leon care all too much for the specifics when they stay over.

Another shift, but Victor doesn’t move away from Piers’s side or peel away the blankets.

Instead, he shakes his head, cheeks reddened.

“Ah, no”—another shake of the head—“I-I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t receive an immediate reply then, just another stutter before silence. It’s not something he particularly minds, not with their present closeness—physical and otherwise—and the newest of their relationship. He doesn’t want to rush Victor or step over his boundaries.

Finally, Victor speaks, “I…I want to try something new tonight.”

“What is it?” Piers couldn’t say that his curiosity wasn’t perked. The most they’ve done so far is kiss, closemouthed and chaste, and sappily enough, hold hands in the privacy of his kitchen. It’s not like they could do it in public—not without the police showing up, sirens blaring, and a personal car ride to jail. Even Victor’s position as Champion wouldn’t halt that sort of procession. If anything, it would make everything worse. If there is truly anything the public loves, it’s defending their star, whether he asked for it or otherwise.

He’s not particularly inclined towards that sort of venture even if his appearance suggests otherwise.

But still, holding hands in the kitchen. It’s particularly corny, bathing in bathos if he were to use a posher description, but he hadn’t minded all too much surprisingly. Victor’s hand had been small in his—the fingers shorter and rounder, the palms smoother, and the flesh softer. He remembers how Victor had asked afterward to compare their hands, and he had complied.

Fingers spread and hands held palm to palm with Victor, Piers had watched with amusement and fondness as he had tilted his head, eyes alight with inquisitiveness. He remembers how Victor had traced the lines and curves of his palms then and how the pads of Victor’s fingertips had pressed against the dark sheens of his nails before moving to the pale knuckles and finally to the protruding bones of his wrists.

It is strange in some sense of the word—prompted by a childish curiosity that he himself no longer understands—but it is an endearing sort of oddness to behold.

He expects a request similar to that then—something silly yet overly, welcomingly sweet as a Watmel Berry.

He doesn’t expect the vulgarity of his words.

“I-I want to try giving a blowjob!”

Piers chokes, spluttering. He hadn’t expected to hear that tonight and certainly not from a boy clad in Pikachu-print pajamas. It’s incongruous at best even if they are partners in every sense of the word.

Well, more incongruous than everything else anyway.

Victor, flustered, continues speaking, “I mean, if you’re fine with it of course!”

“W-where did you learn that from?” It’s a weak response, but he doesn’t quite know how else to respond. He’s fairly certain that he hadn’t left anything risqué out in the open. His more private files are password-locked on his laptop, and similarly, his more personal and much less inconspicuous belongings are hidden elsewhere.

He’s not stupid enough to leave them under the bed or barely hidden in some box in the closet. He has a sister, and his sister has friends—overly meddlesome friends. Besides, he still remembers his younger years with Leon and the rest well.

They hadn’t exactly been the most respectful sort of people then. He remembers how Leon had liked to barge into random people’s houses and how they had snooped around Professor Magnolia’s belongings with Sonia.

Though, it’s not like Piers _hasn’t_ thought about it before, but it’s not a fantasy he shares with Victor. He doesn’t share any of his more explicit thoughts with him. He’s fairly certain he hasn’t had any explicit dreams around Victor either, nothing that would raise any questions in him.

Another stutter before Victor responds, “Hop showed me and Bede! I ‘unno where he found it though.”

Well, that explains a lot of things, not that it would particularly help at the moment.

Face still flushed, Victor continues, “I don’t know a lot about how to do it—I mean outside of what I saw—but I can learn!”

Victor’s voice is boyishly earnest—sincere in its offer—and Piers feels the slight hum of desire in stomach and the feel of blood moving elsewhere.

It’s awkward, the silence that descends upon them, but Piers is the first to break it.

“Why do you want to?”

“I”—Victor pauses, embarrassed—“It’s what adults do, right? I-I want to make you happy.”

It is a sappy, almost naïve, response, but it is also overly endearing—sweet if awkward.

“You don’t have to,” Piers says. “You already make me happy enough. You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want to.”

It is a cliché answer for a cliché response, but it’s true enough. He expects Victor to drop it then, for the night to return to normalcy, but it doesn’t. Instead, Piers feels him shift once more and the Victor’s hands on his shoulder.

He feels Victor’s lips press against his cheek and his chest against his bare shoulder. It’s an awkward motion, one probably learned from that damnable video that Hop found, but it incites his senses anyway.

“I-I want to,” Victor says, “I won’t regret it if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Piers feels the tenseness in Victor’s hands, in the way his fingers curl slightly and in the way his palms sweat, and in the slight tremor of his body.

“Please?”

Victor’s breath brushes against his cheek, deceptively feathery and soft despite his implications.

“Alright.”

* * *

“You don’t have to do this,” Piers says. Sitting on the edge of their shared bed, Piers finds himself staring down at a kneeling Victor, still clad in his bright yellow pajamas. It’s a grotesque sort of scene, not in the manner of the macabre but in the manner of simplicity.

“I want to.” Victor’s brow furrows, and Pier hears both the stubbornness and the nervousness in his voice—in the way his words quicken and in the slight lilt and rise of his words.

Piers doesn’t reply then. He doesn’t exactly know how to proceed. As foolish as it is considering everything—his relationship with Victor, their habitual closeness at night, and their unnatural affection for one another—he doesn’t want to be the one to begin it.

Thankfully (or unthankfully depending on how he looks at it), he doesn’t have to.

Victor’s hands grasp at the hem of his sweatpants and pull downward, exposing simple white boxers and a slight tent. It is a jerky, inelegant motion even as Piers raises himself slightly off the bed, and it takes Victor a few tugs before the garment pools around his ankles. It’s awkward in a way that speaks to inexperience—as it should be—but Piers doesn’t mind all too much.

His inexperience is charming in its own way, unwittingly causing his blood to ebb and flow in a way it shouldn’t and his toes to curl.

Repulsive perhaps, even his mind returns to that particular thought sometimes, but they’re almost pass the point of no return anyway; or perhaps they have already reached that point. He had listened to and accepted Victor’s confession after all.

For most, that is more than enough.

He feels Victor’s fingers hook into his boxers’ hem before stilling, hesitant. Piers almost speaks again, but Victor’s hands move before he can, sliding the fabric downward and revealing a half-hard cock.

It’s a bit deviant even for him but he feels a slight twinge in his cock when he sees how Victor’s eyes widen—from his own understanding and his own memories, it is rather different to experience something rather than merely see it on video—and he’s almost tempted to tease him, but he thinks better.

Instead, he reaches for the nightstand drawer, pulls it open, and rummages before pulling out a pink foil packet. He almost tears the packet open until Victor’s hand stops him, having grabbed his wrist.

“I-I want to try something with it! From the video I mean.”

Piers almost declines. He doesn’t exactly want Victor to try opening it with his teeth. As erotic as porn tends to make the act appear, it’s not exactly the most practical method—too many chances to accidently puncture or tear the latex.

Cumming in Victor’s mouth isn’t high on his list of priorities really, not in reality anyway. It’s one thing to fantasize and another to act on it.

He doesn’t want to sicken Victor in the literal sense—he’s clean according to his tests but that doesn’t mean he wants to risk anything, minor or otherwise—and he’s fairly certain the kid wouldn’t like the taste of it either. He’s not particularly fond of it himself, too salty with that particular tinge of sweetness and intermingled with sweat.

But still, he hands the packet to Victor. He had seen a few others in his drawer, and he’s certainly not cheap enough to value it over a simple request such as Victor’s. He always could just explain it to him afterwards and then grab another one.

Surprisingly, however, Victor doesn’t tear the packet open with his teeth. Instead, his fingers grab at the serrated edges and pull. Fishing the condom out and onto his palm, Victor falters once more, eyes glancing between the object and its intended recipient.

He should have thought of that first really. Piers isn’t quite sure if Victor even knows how to put on a condom. He hasn’t asked about or explained the concept—it’s never come up for obvious reasons—and he isn’t sure if Victor’s mother had given him an explanation on the subject yet.

Not that he could or even wants to ask Victor’s mother of course. It wouldn’t exactly be the most productive (or even welcomed) sort of conversation.

“I can put i—”

Victor shakes his head, interrupting him.

“N-no. I can do it! I’m just a bit nervous.”

Somewhat of an understatement considering the shake of his shoulders and the way his eyes glance elsewhere. There isn’t much he could say to console either, not without riling him up again or appearing insincere. He certainly, and rather unfortunately, still remembers his own early encounters—awkward groping, teeth-bumping and excessively wet kisses, and all.

So, he acts instead—placing a hand on the other’s head, ruffling the strands, and stilling only when Victor tilts his chin slightly upward. He doesn’t remove his hand even as Victor peers at him, dark brown eyes peeking from behind similarly colored hair.

“Just do your best,” he says. “Don’t push yourself so much.”

It’s corny and a bit immoral of him to say—he probably shouldn’t be encouraging Victor’s behavior in the first place—but it is, at the very least, better than some hollow, half-thought-out reassurance.

But still, he sees Victor nod—feels the brief movement underneath his palm, feels as he moves, motions more akin to a leaf in early spring than the jittery shaking of before, and feels as his free hand grasp around the shaft. Victor’s grip is tight, almost uncomfortably so, and Piers notes the mixture of curiosity and apprehension in his eyes, in the furrow of his brow, and in the keenly familiar tilt of the head.

It is an endearing sort of attentiveness, more fit for an exam than for their current activities.

“Loosen your grip,” he murmurs, fingertips stroking softly at Victor’s scalp. “Your nails are diggin’ in too much.”

He isn’t a stranger to the more aberrant aspects of sex or to the act of sex itself, but Victor is. As odd as the sentiment is, he doesn’t want to overwhelm him any more than necessary.

“Sorry.” Victor’s reply is the quiet sort—breathy and timid and lacking in his normal boisterousness—and his grip loosens slightly. Outside of that, however, he makes no other motion. Instead, he only continues to stare, gaze intent.

It is a bit awkward honestly, but he attributes it to Victor’s inclinations. Overthinking is both a strong suit and a weakness for him.

Though, he doesn’t exactly want to sit in the near-dark as they are, not for extended periods anyway. And so, he speaks once more, voice low and gentle.

“Just do your best.”

It’s the same sentiment from before, but still, it jerks Victor from his reveries.

And then, his hand moves. It’s a clumsy sort of movement—too fast or too slow, uneven and unevenly paced; or too quick, inexpertly rough, and without the little nuances that his previous partners had.

But still, he finds a certain appeal in it. It is in the way the way Victor’s eyes narrow, in the soft smallness of his fingers and in the way his thin wrist moves with each tug, and in the nervous sweatiness of his palm. Perhaps it’s wholly debauched, but even Victor’s attire—too innocuous, too inoffensive, and more fit for an early 8 p.m. bedtime than for a late-night romp—and their current states bring a certain arousal to him.

It is a bit discerning really, but it isn’t like they could stop now. It is a bit too late for regrets, if they could even be called that. He doesn’t think Victor would like the idea either, not with the slight puffs of breath he hears passing from the boy’s lips—distinctive in their origin and reason.

Though, his movements eventually slow before stopping, and Victor brings his other hand and the condom to the head of his erection.

Thankfully, Victor places the condom on in the proper direction—it would have been rather awkward to correct him otherwise—and he pinches the tip. Though, he doesn’t roll it down.

Much like before, he stops, hesitant and hands still pressed against his cock. Piers almost speaks again—he couldn’t say he wasn’t curious about Victor’s plans—but Victor moves before he can, pressing his mouth to the covered tip.

He hadn’t expected that, but perhaps he should have. It’s not exactly an uncommon idea in porn.

He hears a faint groan escape his own lips as Victor continues. It’s not exactly awful, but it isn’t the best either. Victor struggles to swallow—his mouth’s too small, and his teeth graze the latex—but nonetheless, Piers finds a certain appeal in it and everything else.

There is a certain appeal in how his cock presses against the back of Victor’s throat, a consequence of Victor’s youth rather than anything concerning endowment; in how his hands grasp at the shaft and press against the coarse pubic hairs and his balls, and in the way Victor’s skin flushes light pink.

It is in the noises he makes, muted and shallow and eager.

But most importantly, it’s Victor. That’s simple enough to say and serves as enough of an explanation as anything else.

“Slow down”—Piers combs his hand through Victor’s mussy hair—“you’re doing fine.”

Victor’s cheeks flush further, but he complies, slowing his movements though the tenseness of his body doesn’t dissipate. His eyes are watering, and Piers uses his free hand to wipe away a stray tear. It’s cheesy in some sense of the word, but he couldn’t really expect anything else of him, not without some sort of guilt. He’s still young, too physically immature to be good at certain activities.

He presses his fingertips gently against Victor’s scalp and rubs a few small circles into the skin.

“Really.” Piers lays his free hand on the back of Victor’s neck, not to urge him downward but simply for contact. “It’s not bad. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

It’s not exactly the most frantic or sensual, as contradictory as that it is to say, of blowjobs that Piers has ever experienced, but it’s pleasurable enough in a way that sends a shiver down his spine. It’s pleasing in the way Victor shudders—shaking—both from the shallowness of air and from the soft words he receive. From the more simple yet still loving reassurances to the more loaded whispers of “good boy,” Victor soaks them up.

His hands are still on Victor’s neck or in his hair, massaging the scalp, even as he cums.

When Victor raises his head, he’s still trembling, and there’s a small bulge in his pants, lightly staining the print of his pants.

“I can take care of that,” he says without thinking.

Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Certainly, it would be proper etiquette in these sorts of occasions, but it’s Victor. He’s young, much younger than any of his previous partners and casual encounters. He doesn’t exactly want to overstep his boundaries.

It’s already enough with what they’ve done tonight. The used condom, already removed and tied, is proof enough.

However, Victor doesn’t react poorly as he expects. Instead, he merely nods, face still flushed and still kneeling. It’s easy enough for Piers to hoist Victor up onto his bare thigh, and it’s easy enough to pull down both his pants and briefs to reveal a small, leaking erection.

His fingers wrap easily enough around the hairless cock. Victor’s not particularly big for obvious reasons, and he couldn’t even say that the organ fit perfectly into his palm. It’s simply too small.

It doesn’t take Piers long to jerk him off either, not because of callousness or rush, but Victor simply lacks the stamina that comes with being an adult.

Still, Piers appreciates the noises, no matter how relatively brief, that Victor makes and the reactions he elicits with his actions.

Victor’s voice is breathy, whining, and noisy—a mix of gasps and his name, keening—as he strokes at the boy’s erection, index finger pressed against the slit.

Still, that isn’t the only thing he finds endearing.

It’s sweet how Victor’s hands grasp at the dark cloth of his tank top and how his thighs—half-clothed against bare skin—quiver. It’s in the way Victor’s body presses against his, heartbeat audible.

When Victor, cums—panting and squirming on his lap—it isn’t much, simply a small squirt into his hand. At the very least, it makes cleanup easier.

He doesn’t any more requests from Victor tonight, but he receives them anyway.

“C-can you help me clean up? In the bathroom I mean.”

Awkward yet entirely endearing. That is how he would describe Victor.

He ends up carrying Victor to the bathroom, grabbing one of his spare shirts on the way in. It would be an incredibly loose fit, but it would do until Victor could rummage through his own belongings for a spare change of clothes.

It is a simple task, but he doesn’t mind, nonetheless. It is a particular intimacy, a particular odd warmth, that he craves from Victor—a particular closeness that he cannot, would not be able to, receive outside of their more private moments, not until the boy grew up anyway.

There is a certain sweetness when they kiss, closemouthed and chaste, soon after in bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to be working on that aged-up Victor/Piers wall sex fic or the Piers/Victor/Marnie one, but this one came out instead but that's how creativity goes I guess. At least, it gives me a chance to put off the latter since I haven't written M/F in a long time tbh. I have my barebones draft of it, but I'm currently stuck on the details. Well, more like I'm stuck on the perspective and who receives what. It turns into a rather different fic depending on those aspects really.
> 
> I'll also write a non-explicit Victor/Piers fic one day—it's actually on my to do list—but not today.
> 
> On Victor's seemingly random sense of precociousness, he's someone who's only vaguely received the Talk and the rest he picked up from that video. That's why he seems to know about condoms, but not about a lot of other things outside of imitation. Like, I'm fairly certain most parents aren't gonna talk about the other aspects of sex. That's my reason anyway.
> 
> A lot of his actions also stem from a feeling of "inequality," or rather, he fears that he's seen as an unequal. He's not in some senses but that doesn't stop him from trying to grow up faster anyway.
> 
> Cut Scenes: A longer chat scene in the bathroom (cut because I thought the ideas of the fic were ample enough with what is implied), more physical detail on the explicit sections (I ended up going the emotional route instead), more juxtaposition between the jarring nature of Victor's outfit and activities
> 
> And as a final mildly unrelated side note, where did Hop find that video, and why didn't he show it to Marnie and Allister since they're part of this little group as well in my fics? Leon didn't lock up his porn well enough, and Hop knows Piers would kill him if he showed Marnie, and Marnie would do the same to him if Allister stumbled upon it.


End file.
